The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  She looked at me, but didn’t respond.

  I left the family room, went downstairs, and checked the phone book in the office and discovered that the sporting goods store was still where it had been ten years ago.

  I went out into the rain, got into my car, and drove down the long drive and onto Grace Lane.

  Not one of my better days, but on the bright side, maybe I didn’t have to be nice now to William and Charlotte.

  I took my time driving to Glen Cove, and I used the time to think about today, tomorrow, and the days ahead. It occurred to me that there was nothing here for me, except unhappiness and bad memories. So as soon as I was through here with whatever I needed to do, I’d go back to London. Susan, who was quite capable, would have to make her own decisions and take care of herself. I’d advise her to return to Hilton Head, but beyond that, I felt no further obligation toward her, and no desire to be part of her life.

  That wasn’t true, of course, but that would have to be my exit line as I packed my bags—then maybe we could try again, ten years from now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  I remembered the sporting goods store owner, a Mr. Roger Bahnik, who had always been helpful and patient when I’d brought Edward or Carolyn in for various camping and sporting items. I’d also come here myself for deep-sea fishing gear as well as some nautical odds and ends, so I considered reintroducing myself, but Mr. Bahnik could possibly remember Susan’s misuse of a firearm, and since my purpose here was to buy a weapon and ammunition, I thought it best to remain anonymous until I had to show my ID.

  I stated my purpose, feigning little knowledge of firearms or ammunition, though I’m sure I was being unnecessarily devious. Mr. Bahnik showed me to the big boys’ gun shop in the rear of the store, and he asked me if I was shooting skeet or birds, and if birds, what kind.

  I replied, “Very big birds.”

  Mr. Bahnik suggested an appropriate heavy game load, and I also bought a box of rifled deer slugs, which can put a very big hole in a person.

  Mr. Bahnik was wearing a holster with a handgun, as is required when you sell guns, and I would have liked to buy two of Mr. Bahnik’s handguns—one for me, and one for Susan’s purse—but as I said, I’d need a special permit to carry a concealed weapon; I could possibly obtain this permit, but it would take about six months, and that would be six months too late. Susan, unfortunately, had that prior problem with a handgun, and I doubted if the authorities would look favorably on her gun permit application.

  But I still needed a personal defense weapon for the road, so I asked to see some carbines, which Mr. Bahnik was happy to show me.

  He unlocked the gun case and laid out a few small carbines on the counter. I examined an old World War II Winchester .30 caliber M-1 carbine, which I’d fired in the Army. These rifles are only about three feet long and fit nicely under a car seat, and maybe even into one of those big handbags I see the ladies carrying.

  Mr. Bahnik briefed me, “The M-1 will be accurate to about three hundred yards, and it will bring down a deer, but mostly it’s used for small game, and also as a personal defense weapon.” He inquired, “What are you using it for?”

  I didn’t want to tell him I was going to carry it in the car because the Mafia were after me, so I replied, “Home security.”

  “Ah. Excellent. The missus will like this—lightweight, about five pounds, semi-automatic, and a soft recoil.”

  “She’ll love it.” I confessed, “It’s an anniversary gift.”

  Mr. Bahnik knew I was joking—or hoped I was—and laughed.

  I got a box of .30 caliber carbine rounds, and a cleaning kit for the carbine and one for the shotgun, and Mr. Bahnik threw in an American flag patch that I could sew onto my hunting jacket, or pajamas.

  I noticed an orange hazmat suit hanging on a wall, along with a nice selection of gas masks. These items seemed to be a new addition since my last visit, and I asked him, “Are you selling many gas masks and hazmat suits?”

  He glanced at his display on the wall and replied, “I sell a few gas masks . . . but no takers for the hazmat suits.” He informed me, “I am, however, selling a lot of freeze-dried rations and jerry cans for water.” He added, “And a few radiation detectors.”

  “And weapons?”

  “Business has picked up.” He added, “And candles, Coleman lanterns, flashlights . . . that sort of thing.” He joked, “We don’t do this well even during the hurricane season.”

  I didn’t respond, but I was happy to learn that Mr. Bahnik was doing well and that the Gold Coast was prepared. Life in the USA had certainly changed.

  Mr. Bahnik tallied up my purchases as I completed some paperwork for the carbine and ammunition. The government forms didn’t ask too many silly questions, and I used my passport for photo ID. My American Express card was still working, though I don’t recall having paid the bill for a while, and we completed our transaction.

  Mr. Bahnik wrapped my M-1 carbine in plain brown paper so that I could carry it to the car without upsetting shoppers or law enforcement people, and he put my other purchases in a big shopping bag that said “Sporting Goods—Camping Equipment—Guns.” No mention of gas masks.

  My name, and maybe my address on the paperwork as well as my face seemed to be registering now with Mr. Bahnik, and I could see that he was recalling something—perhaps my happy visits to his store with my children. Or, more likely, he was recalling something he’d read or seen on TV about ten years ago. He looked at me and said, as if to himself, “Oh . . . yes.”

  I thanked him for his help, and as I walked toward the door, I could see he was looking at me, perhaps concerned that he’d see me and Mrs. Sutter on the evening news again. Well, he might.

  The rain had stopped, but the sky was dark, and I could hear thunder in the distance, and I knew it would start again.

  Back at Stanhope Hall, I had the good fortune of running into Amir Nasim, who was standing outside his newly acquired gatehouse, speaking to two men in suits. Decorators? I thought not. I stopped and got out of my Taurus, and Mr. Nasim excused himself from his company and approached me.

  We exchanged greetings, and he was a bit cool to me, which could have been because I’d refused his suggestion that I convince Susan to sell her house to him. Also, he realized that my status on the property was apparently permanent. On the other hand, he’d gotten his gatehouse back sooner than either of us could have foreseen.

  Perhaps, too, he was upset about Felix Mancuso’s visit. And there were two reasons he’d be upset about the FBI calling: one, he just didn’t want the FBI to come calling; and two, Mancuso had told him about the Sutters’ problems with the Mafia. Or all of the above.

  But Mr. Nasim is a polite chap, and he kept his forced smile as he said to me, “So, I understand that congratulations are in order for you and Mrs. Sutter.”

  I didn’t want to spoil his good wishes by giving him the update that Mrs. Sutter and I were not speaking at the moment, so I replied, “Thank you.”

  He inquired, “Is it your plan to continue living here?”

  I actually didn’t know if I’d be living here until I got back to the guest cottage to see if my bags were packed. Also, if I expressed any thought about us leaving, then his offering price would go down, and I’d also lose my ten percent commission. But seriously, I replied, “We love our home.”

  “Well . . . you will let me know if your plans change.”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Mr. Mancuso’s visit did not seem to be on Nasim’s agenda, and he said to me, apropos of the two gentlemen walking around the gatehouse, “I have engaged the services of a private security firm to analyze my needs and to make recommendations for enhancing my security here.”

  I assured him, “Good idea.” Then I advised, “Don’t use Bell Security.” I explained, “That’s a Mafia company.”

  I couldn’t tell if he thought I was being funny or serious, but he assured me, “It is not that company.” />
  “Good. And on that subject, I assume that you spoke to Special Agent Felix Mancuso of the FBI this morning.”

  He nodded and replied, “Yes, I did.” He informed me, “He spoke of your and Mrs. Sutter’s concerns about a possible problem regarding events that took place some years ago and which may now be resurfacing.”

  “Correct. So we all seem to have some security issues, and I would be very happy if we could coordinate our efforts in that regard.”

  He thought about that and probably concluded that I was trying to get some free security service. He replied, “Of course, we can do that.” He observed, “As a practical matter, this is the same property, and your egress and mine are the same, so we do need to discuss the issue of authorized visitors.” He added, “Just as they do next door at Alhambra Estates.”

  Poor comparison, but I replied, “Correct.”

  He further informed me, “The first thing I am doing, as of now, is having this gatehouse occupied by two uniformed guards who will arrive shortly.” He continued, “I am having the remote control frequency changed, as well as the pass code, and I will have the gates closed more often than they are now open.” He assured me, “But, of course, I will give you and Mrs. Sutter the new codes and new remote controls.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Nasim was certainly making life a bit more secure for the Sutters, but he was also happy to make our coming and going a little more inconvenient. Well, that was his right—the guest cottage was smack in the middle of his property, and while the deed for the guest cottage included a right-of-way up the main drive, it was now Amir Nasim who controlled the gates, and thus the access to that right-of-way. If we all didn’t have similar security concerns (people who were trying to kill us), I was sure I’d be in court with Mr. Nasim within a month. But for now, everyone’s concerns and needs coincided, so it was serendipitous for the Sutters that Amir Nasim believed that people were trying to whack him. Talk about luck.

  On the subject of visitors, he asked me, “Are you expecting any company, Mr. Sutter?” He added, “Or anyone who you do not want to have access?”

  I replied, “Well, I’m not receiving any calls from the Mafia today.”

  He seemed taken aback at my direct response, or perhaps he was surprised at my making a little joke of something he probably didn’t find too funny. Along the lines of unwanted visitors, I thought about giving him the description of William and Charlotte and telling him to have them stopped and strip-searched in the gatehouse. But that would get back to Susan, and she wouldn’t understand that this was just a joke that Mr. Nasim didn’t get.

  I did say, however, “With Mrs. Allard’s death, we are expecting some company.” I briefed him on the Stanhope arrival at about 5:00 P.M., and the arrival of Edward and Carolyn tomorrow evening, either by car or by taxi. It slipped my mind to mention Peter’s possible arrival on Saturday or Sunday, and with any luck, the guards would imprison the wastrel in the gatehouse basement. I did mention, though, Elizabeth Allard, whom he knew, and my mother, whom I described as a sweet old lady. I also mentioned the small army of service people and tradesmen that Susan engaged.

  Mr. Nasim nodded as I briefed him, and he said, “Yes, perhaps then you can deliver to me a list of these people, and I will be certain to inform the security guards.”

  I said to him, “We will need to work out some system that is not inconvenient for me or for Mrs. Sutter.”

  “Of course.”

  “I need to be in contact with your security people, and they need to be in contact with us. Also, Mrs. Sutter and I need to be authorized to give them instructions.”

  He didn’t seem to like any of that, but he replied, “I am sure we can coordinate all of that, Mr. Sutter.”

  “Swell.” I advised him, “That ten-foot wall that runs for over a quarter of a mile along Grace Lane will not keep any motivated trespassers out. Also, the remainder of the perimeter is basically wide open, except for a stockade fence in the rear of your property and tree lines on either side, so while the gate may be secure, you have close to a mile of unsecured perimeter around the property.”

  He informed me, “We are discussing sensor devices, and I should tell you that there will be an all-terrain vehicle with a security person and a dog patrolling the property during the evening hours. I will keep you informed.”

  “Please do.” I inquired, “Will those security people be armed?”

  “Of course.”

  Most of these guys were moonlighting or retired cops, or former military, and they could be trusted with a weapon. But I had the impression—from Anthony Bellarosa, actually—that security was now a growth industry in America, and that always meant hiring marginal people to fill the ranks, just as the FAA did at the airports. I advised Mr. Nasim, “Be certain that all these security guards have had background checks, and that they are licensed to carry a handgun, and that there are at least two active or retired law officers on each and every shift.” I added, “Get this in writing.”

  He remarked, “I am glad I spoke to you, Mr. Sutter.”

  “Likewise.” And to be an even better neighbor, and to acknowledge my benefits from Mr. Nasim’s fortification of Stanhope Hall, I offered, “I would be happy to contribute a fair share toward your costs.” Actually, Susan would.

  He assured me, “I am not incurring any extra cost as a result of your presence here, and I am happy to include the guest cottage and your acreage in my security arrangement.”

  “Thank you, but, as we say, you get what you pay for, so I need to insist that I be a party to your contract, and that I pay, directly to your security company, my share, pro rata, based on my ten acres.”

  He smiled and said, “Ah, you are ever the lawyer, Mr. Sutter, and a man who knows his numbers.”

  “Is that agreeable—or should I get my own security service here, which may be inconvenient and confusing?”

  He understood my concerns, as well as my power play, and he nodded and agreed, “All right.” He suggested, “Perhaps you can give me some legal advice about the contract.”

  “You can be sure that our contract with the security company will be up to my standards.”

  It was his turn to make a power play, and he said to me, “Those hedges which encircle your ten acres are a possible problem in regard to my security, and yours as well. So perhaps you will consider removing those.”

  “I would, but Mrs. Sutter likes to sunbathe in the nude, and I assume you wouldn’t want to see that.”

  Mr. Nasim may have thought I was being provocative, or that I was baiting him, and he replied tersely, “I should think that security would take precedence, so perhaps you can ask Mrs. Sutter if she would perhaps consider removing the hedges and constructing a small enclosure for her . . . nature hours.”

  Good one, Amir. And actually quite reasonable. I replied, “I’ll discuss that with her.”

  “Thank you.” He thought a moment, then said to me, “If you and Mrs. Sutter find this situation not to your liking, perhaps you will reconsider my offer to purchase your property.”

  Actually, I might. But it wasn’t my property. I realized, too, that Susan’s house and property—surrounded by foreign-held territory, whose paranoid or justifiably frightened owner was hiring armed guards with dogs—was no longer prime real estate. Even the local realtors, who could sell a toxic waste dump to a couple with children, would find this one a challenge. And this beautiful English cottage is situated in the middle of a grand estate owned by a wonderful Iranian couple who are under a death threat, so you may see some dogs and armed men around the well-manicured grounds, but the dogs are friendly, and the men will not shoot during the daylight hours. Offered at three million.

  “Mr. Sutter?”

  “Well . . . that is Mrs. Sutter’s decision, and I believe you already have her decision. But, I will . . .” I thought if I could get William and Charlotte shot, or eaten by the dogs, then Susan might be able to buy back the whole estate with her inheritance. But the maint
enance costs . . . I crunched some numbers as Mr. Nasim waited patiently for me to finish my thought. I said to him, “I will raise the question again, but only because you asked.”

  “That is all I want you to do. And you might mention to Mrs. Sutter that I am happy to be able to provide some measure of safety for her during this time of . . . uncertainty in her life, but that unfortunately this security comes with some inconvenience.” He gave me another example of the inconvenience by saying, “I’m afraid, for instance, that I need to limit your use of my grounds—on the advice of my security advisor.”

  More bullshit, but he was making a good case for us selling to him at a reduced price.

  He continued, “As an example of my concerns, I saw Mrs. Sutter running yesterday, and I am not sure that would be a good thing with the dogs and the patrols.”

  I asked, “Are you sure that was she? What was she wearing?”

  “Well . . . she was dressed modestly, but that is not the issue.”

  “Right. I get it.” I knew she wasn’t running naked.

  He concluded his pitch, “And while it is my sincere hope that Mrs. Sutter’s situation is resolved quickly and happily, my situation is, unhappily, of long duration. So I don’t believe that these acres will return to peace and tranquility at any time in the near future.”

  “Loud and clear, Mr. Nasim.”

  “Yes? Good. Well, then, please pass on my condolences to Mrs. Allard’s family, and perhaps I will have the pleasure of meeting your family in the next few days.”

  I thought about asking him if he had an extra bedroom for William and Charlotte—actually, he had about twenty—but I wasn’t sure if the Stanhopes and the Nasims would get along. I mean, they might—William could give Amir the history of the house, and explain the significance of the blackamoors, and Charlotte could show Soheila how to shake a mean martini.

  Anyway, I said to Mr. Nasim, “Perhaps we can all get together for tea.”

  “Let me know.”